Fortune Presents Gifts Not According to the Book
by telegramsam
Summary: Fill for the following prompt at the Hobbit kinkmeme at LJ: "Fem!Gimli has no idea she's pregnant until she goes into labor. They are still traveling about Middle Earth together and the only competent help nearby is a few miles away in Imladris" Ch 4 - PLEASE NOTE CHANGE IN STORY RATING
1. Fortuna

(A/N: Fucking up the timelines from the Appendices, and a whole lot else besides, apologies. Call it artistic license for the sake of a bit of self-indulgent fluff I guess.)

"Oh, this is going to be good, my love."

Light feminine laughter, like bells.

"High time that lot all had a good shaking up"

Deeper laughter echoed.

ooooo

Legolas smiled to himself as the dwarf behind him dozed lightly against his back. The stout arms at their customary position around his waist maintained their firm grip, but the occasional snuffling or soft snore reached his sensitive elven ears (Legolas recalled a time when Gimli would not have dared to relax upon the back of a horse, having no trust for such beasts). He slowed their mount to a leisurely walk, not wanting to awaken Gimli. There was no hurry to get anywhere, anyway.

They'd just had a brief visit to their friends in the Shire and had no particular destination at the moment, just enjoying being on the road and taking in the sights of Arda together, enjoying the hard-won peace which followed the great war.

The two would eventually make their way to Fangorn and the Glittering caves, but there was plenty to see on the way. Today, the East Road was mostly empty of travelers, save the occasional group of men or dwarven traders taking their wares toward Bree or the Misty Mountains, and the surrounding country was blessedly calm. The few surviving orcs in these parts were unlikely to leave their deepest hiding places in mountains so soon after the downfall of Saruman and Sauron.

It had been good to see Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin again. The Shire was already repairing and rebuilding and married life seemed to suit Frodo's gardener well. Although Frodo clearly still suffered the effects of their journey, the passage of a little time had improved his spirits. Perhaps a visit to Imladris would be in order? They were quite nearby, a few hours away. They might as well impose on that famous hospitality for a night or two and enjoy sleeping in proper beds (as well as imposing upon Lord Elrond's skills as a healer, if Legolas could overcome Gimli's stubborn pride long enough to allow being looked over by an elf).

Legolas placed a hand over Gimli's at his waist and rubbed his thumb over the other's course fingers affectionately. The dwarf had been subdued in humor lately, often grumpy (well, more often than usual), and had been sleeping more and difficult to rouse in the mornings (although this seemed to have no ill effect on Gimli's appetite, which was as ravenous as ever). Legolas wasn't overly worried, but not knowing a great deal about dwarven physiology, he had been keeping a closer eye on her, despite her insistence that she was perfectly healthy, other than a few bouts of indigestion.

Yes, _she_…. That had been something of a revelation, nearly a year and a half ago. Legolas had long known that dwarves were a secretive people, and had also known that dwarven women were considered somewhat mythical, or at least a rare occurrence. He remembered Gimli speaking to Eowyn about the rumors passed around among men and elves about dwarves, about there being no dwarf women but that dwarves simply sprang full-formed from the earth. He'd found it amusing at the time but had not given it any real thought.

_We're more common than you think, elf. We simply prefer not to reveal the nature of ourselves but to those we trust with such knowledge._

He.. no, _she_, had winked at him then and laughed heartily at the elf's wide-eyed astonishment. Gimli had made it clear she expected him to treat her the same as always and would tolerate no mollycoddling. Then they both firmly agreed it would not change the nature of their friendship. Legolas had earned a few knocks and stern looks shortly after gaining this knowledge, after slipping and treating her like she had somehow become fragile; Legolas had quickly remembered his respect for the formidable dwarven warrior lest he have to be reminded (somewhat painfully) again.

Really, it all had been a nice thought at the time, but over the following months, it became quite clear they could not pretend that it made no difference. Their friendship had been a deep connection even before, and after had turned in quite an _impossible_ direction.

Yes, _impossible_ was a good word for it. It was absurd, they knew. Taboo, even. Simply _not done_. And yet, they did it.

Secretly, but they _did it_ – exchanged their vows standing on stone, above the bones of Arda, and under bough and sky, with only birds and beasts and the stars above to bear witness.

Judgment and consequences be damned, despite everything, _they loved each other_, and all other enmity and disagreement aside, elves and dwarves shared one important aspect – most of them loved only once, and irrevocably. They could no more deny the calling of their own hearts than pluck them out of their chests and survive to tell of it.

And may the Valar help them if the truth ever got out into the ears and on the wagging tongues of the world...

ooooo

Legolas perched on a fallen log, idly poking at the embers in front of him with the tip of an arrow, watching Gimli tossing and turning on her bedroll a few feet away, tangled up in a miserable knot of blankets, hair and beard. It would seem neither of them would be getting any rest tonight; Legolas had no need of sleep this particular night and in stark contrast to her recent habits, Gimli seemed incapable of it.

Hours before, he had laid down close behind Gimli in an attempt to offer comfort, as they often laid curled up with one another on those nights Legolas did sleep (or after, well, _other_ nocturnal activities), only this time to be brusquely shoved away, accompanied by grumbling about elves and their boundary issues.

Legolas was used to Gimli's temper and occasional turns of mood, which seemed to have become more volatile of late, and tried not to take it personally. _Tried,_ being the operative word. He speared a bit of smoldering wood with an arrowhead and flung it neatly into the nearby stream.

The moon lay low in the sky and a greenish hue outlining the peaks of the Misty Mountains at the opposite horizon heralded the coming dawn. He stood and went over to their packs, fishing around for a something to break their fast.

There was a loud huff and the shifting of cloth behind him.

"Do what ya like, but don't bother wi' anything for me this morning. Stomach's cramping something awful."

Gimli pulled her boots on haphazardly and stomped off into the woods, presumably to relieve herself; her poor rest clearly improving her mood from the night before not one jot.

Legolas shoved the small frying pan back into Gimli's pack and pulled out a bit of stale lembas instead. He reminded himself that he loved his dwarf dearly, even when she was being a complete—

"Legolas!"

A startling thread of fear in her voice had Legolas on his feet before Gimli's cry ended, shouldering his bow and grabbing hold of his dagger as he dashed off in the direction of her voice, fearing the worst.

"LEGOLAS!"

His ears rang with the second full-throated shout, which met him as he entered a small gap in the shrubbery. There were no orcs or trolls about, but the queer sight before him had the elf's heart lodging itself in the back of his throat.

Gimli squatted on the grass, trousers bunched around her boots and thoroughly soaked through, liquid glistening in patches on the grass beneath her as well. His first thought was that she'd simply had an "accident", but there was too much for it to have simply been a mistimed full bladder, so what…? Legolas stood and stared in shock and incomprehension.

"Laddie… love, I need ye shut yer gapin' mouth an' help me up."

The dwarf reached a hand up toward her husband.

"Before the next Age would work for me!"

Legolas blinked and grabbed the proffered hand, hauling Gimli to her feet. Gimli fisted the waist of her ruined trousers in her other hand and pulled them up, not bothering with the laces and ignoring the wetness as much as possible as she all but dragged the stunned elf back toward their little camp. It was several long moments before Legolas found his voice.

"Gimli… what exactly happened just now?"

Gimli stopped and peered up at Legolas but did not let go of his hand.

"M'waters broke, apparently."

"Your.. _'waters'_? You don't mean you're, ah… you're…"

He wasn't looking at her as he spoke, but staring off at some mid-point in the distance. He couldn't even bring himself to _say_ it. _There's a good portent for the future of this little family_, Gimli thought. She swallowed thickly.

"The common term is 'pregnant' I think. Expectin'. With child. Or whatever other asinine euphemism you prefer. An' nearly done apparently."

Legolas' head swam as the world seemed to tilt sideways. Never in his dreams did he believe they would ever, _could_ ever…

"How… when… how is this _possible_?"

Gimli's thick brows drew together, her patience wearing out. Her husband still wasn't even looking at her. The cramping in her belly was not yet alarming but the whole situation was growing very irksome indeed.

"If I recall correctly, my dear elf, you were _there_ at the time. _Many_ times, in fact. Seemed to _enjoy_ it, even! Or are you going to accuse me of running off with some fancy dwarrow in the middle of the night, hm?"

The barbed statement hit its mark, all too well. Gimli's… condition… apparently had not dulled her love of sarcasm. Legolas finally turned to look down at her, crossly.

"That's an unfair thing to say, you know well I would never—"

Gimli huffed and nodded at him, her temper cooling somewhat. She did not doubt his love for her, never doubted his heart. His wits at the moment, however…

"I've never heard tell of such a thing, love, but elves and dwarves have never been in the habit of marrying, so how on Arda would anyone know if no one has ever tried? Bit of a surprise for me this morning as well, you know!"

Legolas tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. The initial shock was finally wearing off and he looked upon his wife at last, the reality of the situation slowly seeping into him, bringing only a collection of uncertainties in its wake. He knew nearly nothing about the bearing of children among his own people, never mind dwarves. He knew some mothers and some infants did not survive, and that thought alone had him moving again. He bit back the panic rising in his throat and bent to give her a soft kiss before they moved again.

A moment later at the campfire, Gimli finally let go of his hand, shucked her boots and unceremoniously stripped out of her soiled clothing. She rummaged about in her pack for something dry, utterly unbothered by her own nudity.

Legolas was grateful they were not too near the road and sheltered by trees and greenery. He was not the least bit bothered either by his wife's appearance either, having long since grown accustomed to and even appreciative of her form, but he was always wary of the potential eyes of others on her, those who might judge or make sport of her (even though he knew she'd only be irritated if she had half an idea of how protective he felt) - a fact which would only make what he must do next that much more difficult.

Legolas knew they could not deliver a baby out here in the wild. Even in the absence of orcs, wargs, trolls or other such road hazards, he would not risk her life on his ignorance. They would need a midwife, and soon, probably in a matter of hours, however calm Gimli seemed to be. There was only one place nearby which he thought they had even a hope of reaching in time, and he'd probably have to drag Gimli kicking and screaming - _Rivendell_.

ooooo

"I am not going to that blasted _valley_ with all those blasted _elves_ to be poked and prodded at by some blasted _elf midwife_!"

Legolas had Gimli nearly in a headlock in a futile attempt to drag her toward their horse.

"We don't have time to argue over this! I know it's early but you'll need aid soon enough and I cannot do it myself!"

Gimli twisted in his grasp, pulling down with her immense strength, nearly dragging the elf off his own feet. He let go of her but grasped a sleeve before she was clear of him.

"And what do you think are the chances of encountering a party of dwarves on this road, _including a midwife or healer_, within the next few hours? We've seen a grand total of _three_ dwarven parties in the last four days, all craftsmen and traders!"

Gimli growled deep in her throat, not willing to give in to something as silly as common sense. Their horse nearby blew hotly from her own nostrils, backing a few steps away from the quarreling couple.

"Curse the stubborn necks of dwarves! I'll drag you the entire way if I have to!"

"Oh, I'd like to see you _try_, elf!"

They stared, each daring the other to back down first.

"Gimli, you could die, the babe could die!"

"Preposterous! No dwarrowdam of my lineage has died in childbirth or had a stillbirth in ten generations past!"

"And how many of them were in the habit of having their children out of doors and unaided? How many of them were wed to an _elf_? We don't even rightly know what this child is!"

"Ach! Curse you and your bloody sensibleness!"

Gimli threw her hands up and turned her back on Legolas, grumbling under her breath as she stomped off toward their horse.

Legolas ducked around Gimli to reach the animal first. He mounted the horse and pulled Gimli up at last, seating her in front of him rather than behind, and wrapping an arm firmly around her shoulders as she fisted a handful of horsehair. Legolas directed their horse back up to the road and then set his heels to her flanks, urging her to bring them swiftly across the last few miles to the ford of Bruinen.

ooooo

It was approaching mid-day when they entered the valley of Lord Elrond. Gimli was hunched over and leaning heavily against Legolas' arm, her breath growing shallow and sweat beading over her brow when the pains came in earnest. All else aside, she was still a warrior through and through, and did not cry out, but Legolas knew all the subtle signs that she was suffering and did not slow his pace.

He had been obliged to slow their horse to a canter some miles back, to spare the animal as much as he dared, but he did not halt as he rode past the guard. They shouted at him but he did not hear, nor did he notice two of them leaving their post to dash after him upon foot. By the time he reached the house of Lord Elrond and pulled his mount to a halt, a small crowd was forming.

"_You cannot just fly into a protected realm—"_

"_Son of Thranduil, just what do you think you are—"_

"_Where's the fire—"_

"_What's happened—"_

Legolas ignored the protestations and questions of the elves surrounding him, scanning his surroundings only for Elrond himself.

"I need to speak to Lord Elrond, the matter is urgent."

More questions, more competing voices. Gimli groaned softly, the first noise Legolas had heard from her since they broke camp that morning. The horse blew and stamped, mirroring her riders' growing agitation and pain.

"Oh, do tell them all to shut up, laddie!"

The pain in Gimli's voice pulled at his heart. _Where is Lord Elrond? There's no time for this circus!_

Finally the crowd parted and the Lord of Imladris appeared.

"Hail, Legolas, son of Thranduil; Gimli, son of Gloin, what brings you to Imladris in such haste?"

Elrond's piercing blue eyes traveled across the pair, taking in every detail. He looked upon Gimli for a long moment and his eyes suddenly widened, as though startled. The expression passed so quickly that Legolas thought he might have imagined it, but nonetheless Legolas' face grew hot, fearing exposure out here surrounded by what seemed to be half of Elrond's people.

Elrond turned to his aid, Lindir, and whispered something. Lindir peered up curiously at the pair on horseback before nodding sharply and began shooing off the crowd, ordering the guard back to their posts and dismissing the rest.

"Yes… I see you certainly do have need of my aid."

Elrond beckoned Legolas to dismount and helped him lift Gimli down to rest on unsteady feet. That Gimli allowed it without protestation was an astonishment Legolas filed away to be pondered at another time. Elrond knelt beside the dwarf, gently looking her over. Gimli grit her teeth and glanced accusingly at Legolas from the corner of one eye. Legolas knew her meaning without the necessity of words - _I'm only doing this for your sake, not because I need it_.

"Can you walk, Gimli?"

"Of course I can bloody well walk, my legs haven't fallen off, have they?"

Elrond ignored the outburst and stood, placing a hand behind Gimli's shoulder, guiding her indoors and through the hallways of his home as Legolas took pace behind her.

ooooo

He knew this would attract all the wrong sort of attention as soon as he realized what was happening, but he thought they could at least attempt to be _discreet_ about their accursed curiosity. The next face belonging to one other than the one he'd chosen to assist, that came through that door, would end up with a heavy projectile impacting with his or her nose.

He could even _hear_ them out in the hallway. All of them centuries old, some thousands of years old, out there gossiping like a pack of bored adolescents.

"_A pregnant dwarf!"_

As though it were something truly astounding. He supposed they had all bought into that nonsense about dwarves springing out of holes in the ground or somesuch. How much easier it is to dismiss them when denying that they are flesh and blood as you are!

Finally Elrond got up and shut the door, locking it behind him. When Lindir returned with the supplies he'd requested, he could knock like a civilized being. Elrond had bypassed the usual rooms reserved for healing work and brought the laboring dwarrowdam, followed by Thranduil's son (who flatly refused to wait outside) to a set of private rooms adjacent to his own, generally reserved for use by immediate family when visiting. That alone ought to have been a clue to his subjects that he did not wish for their "company" in this matter.

"Is this all really necessary?"

Not to mention that the dwarf in question wasn't exactly making this easy, either.

"Yes, I'm afraid it is. Please undress and change into what you've been given. I assure you it's _quite_ necessary."

The last babe that had been delivered in Imladris was centuries old now; his own people were dwindling and passing West in greater numbers with each passing year; soon he would leave as well, and reunite with his Celebrian. He could feel the calling of the sea and the ache of the distance separating him from his wife settling in his very bones. He was pained by the knowledge he would leave his daughter behind, but there was nothing left to be done; as he would leave for the sake of his love, she would remain for the sake of her love, and her own children to come.

_I'm getting far too old for this sort of thing._

He turned aside as Legolas spoke in low tones to Gimli, who complained but consented, finally.

Elrond knew they were close friends, bound in shared pain and shed blood on the battlefield, but something about the way they interacted raised curious suspicions in his mind, and he watched surreptitiously as Legolas helped Gimli undress, pausing occasionally as her pains came and passed.

They were very… familiar, with one another. Legolas unwound the cloth binding Gimli's breasts with practiced ease, undid clasps, buttons and lacings without hesitation; the dwarf showed no particular modesty regarding Legolas' eyes (which did not shy in the least from the dwarf's stout, thickly muscled and shockingly _furry_ frame), other than the annoyance at having to change in the first place. Gimli was finally clothed in the simple gown (far too long, and not quite broad enough, but the best fit that could be had on such short notice).

Elrond shook off his reverie and moved over to the pair, motioning Legolas out of the way. The dwarf growled and glared at him in a clear challenge when he moved to touch her. Legolas laid a placating hand on her shoulder but the gesture made no difference.

"I cannot help you if you will not allow me to touch you."

Gimli looked back to Legolas, who squeezed her shoulder in response.

"Fine, _fine_. Do… whatever it is."

The healer moved quickly as possible, pushing the gown out of the way to press on the impatient dwarrowdam's abdomen, trying to feel the position of the infant as best he could through denser musculature and more ample padding than he was accustomed to. Elrond silently thanked the Valar that at least it was positioned correctly (head down); he did not desire to attempt a breech birth after so many centuries out of practice.

However, something did not seem quite… right. He paused and felt around again; he could not claim firsthand knowledge of dwarven childbirth (he'd read about it, as he read about nearly everything, but no more), but by his best estimation the babe was probably about average size… _for an elf_. A bit large, probably, for a _dwarf_.

As bits and pieces joined together, an alarming picture was suddenly forming clearly in his mind. He breathed deeply and resolved to put his foot in it. Might as well know now, as it would come out sooner or later anyway (quite literally).

"Forgive me for prying… but do not dwarves prefer to take care of these matters among their own people? I am surprised to find you in these parts in such a delicate state, I should think your husband would not have allowed—"

Elrond's suspicions were confirmed as Legolas turned, eyes flashing dangerously.

"_I_ am her husband and I would _die_ before I allowed her to come to harm!"

When Elrond offered no reprobation or any reply beyond a softening expression, the anger drained suddenly out of the younger elf, replaced by fear and (oh, Valar help them) no small measure of shame. Legolas dropped his gaze to the sheets covering the bed, his hand moving to Gimli's (who was glaring around Legolas at Elrond in such a manner that he was grateful looks could not kill).

"Neither of us knew she was, uh, expecting. Or that it was… possible."

Elrond felt no revulsion at this knowledge, as he knew Legolas expected, but rather sympathy, and worry. Elrond's own mixed blood had been a topic for whispered gossip and even outright scorn more than once; he remembered the stinging glances and comments he and his brother had sometimes drawn, even as little children.

This child would likely suffer worse; despite brief periods of cooperation and even tentative friendship, the enmity between elves & dwarves ran older and deeper than that between elves & men. Many elves considered dwarves to be the nothing more than the malformed children of a lesser creator, conveniently forgetting that however and by whomever their bodies had been shaped and formed, it was Eru Illuvatar who granted them the breath of life, the same as to elves & men.

As for the dwarves.. who knew how they would react? They were exceedingly suspicious of outsiders under the best circumstances.

ooooo

"_I am her husband and I would die before I allowed her to come to harm!"_

Lindir froze with a hand raised to knock at the door in front of him.

"_I am her husband"_

The raised voice of Thranduil's son had come through the door to hit him like a sack of bricks to the head.

"_I am her husband"_

He wasn't sure how long he had been standing there, now, fist suspended in the air. He blinked owlishly, reality slowly settling back into place around him.

He'd been shocked enough when the prince rode bold as brass into the heart of Rivendell clasping a dwarf to his breast. He'd immediately recognized the _naugrim_ as one of the nine walkers who had set out with the halfling on his quest to destroy the ring of power.

Female, apparently, though how anyone could possibly tell the difference… he'd never been quite sure they actually existed. He'd heard the rumors, everybody had heard the rumors.

And… Legolas Thranduilion. His _wife! _A _dwarf_! He could not even imagine.

Lindir's hand dropped uselessly to his side. As he turned away from the door to collect himself, he caught the flash of another elf dashing down the hallway. His stomach dropped to somewhere around his knees. It _would_ have to be that old gossip Trathron.

Lindir braced himself and finally gathered the courage to knock on the door.

ooooo

A crowd had formed again outside the locked door, no less than half a dozen pointed ears pressed against it while others jostled for position, listening for any activity from the three elves and dwarf on the other side.

Inside, there was no time for arguing over the merits or demerits of what had transpired; a child was soon to be born whether welcomed or no.

Lindir was seated a few feet away, staring out of a nearby window as the first stars of the evening appeared in the sky. Various items were stacked on a small table to his right while water boiled over the fireplace; Lindir silently passed the various things to his Lord Elrond as required. His head ached in time with his heartbeat; he wished to be anywhere but in this wretched room.

Gimli no longer bothered trying to keep silent; she felt like she was being torn apart from the inside out and there was no enemy to resist or fight against in this most curious of battles. Each pain hit her like the crest of a wave, coming more quickly now; she could hardly catch her breath.

She was exhausted and fed up, with the waiting, with the pain, with all these dratted _elves_. She'd already had to shove both Elrond and Legolas aside more than once to shift position. They had actually expected her to give birth _lying flat on her back_. What kind of self-respecting dwarf would ever—bloody preposterous!

Legolas was perched on the bed near her, nervously chewing at the end of a lock of blond hair, paying no heed to the dwarf's hand violently fisted in his tunic, threatening to tug it to pieces with each bout of pain.

Elrond glanced up at Gimli, at Legolas. He had hoped for this to go more quickly, but the night dragged on.

ooooo

Trathron huffed as he was finally pushed from the door by another curious elf who was tired of waiting for her turn.

"I don't know why anyone cares, really. It's all quite disgusting if you ask me."

He gave one backwards glance over his thin, pointed nose at the gathered crowd, who were paying him no attention, and decided a trip to the kitchens for a snack was more worthy of his time anyway.

ooooo

It was well past midnight when, finally, the crown of the baby's head appeared. After that, things proceeded mercifully quickly (if loudly – Elrond knew well enough that dwarves could be deafening in volume, had heard more than one dwarven war-cry in his lifetime, but never quite this closely or _repeatedly)._

The room was soon filled by another sort of cry entirely, as something new and unforeseen entered the world.

Lindir was suddenly roused from his rumination as something was carefully but swiftly deposited on him, his arms suddenly full of screaming newborn. He blinked at the squalling child a few times before reacting properly, finally moving to clean her and wrap her up in the swaddling.

He couldn't help but study her as he did so. She was about the same size as the few newborn elves he distantly remembered, but with noticeably broad hands and feet. Her ears were pointed, but outsized and oddly set. She already had thick, curled hair, still plastered flat to her head but drying quickly. The dampness and dim firelight made the color difficult to determine accurately, but he thought it might be a reddish blonde. He was reminded of the halflings, more than anything else. _At least she doesn't have a beard…_

He looked up to see Elrond dealing with the afterbirth, then reaching for cloths and a suture kit. He hadn't noticed the amount of blood before, hadn't really been paying much attention beyond responding to Elrond's requests for various things. There was… quite a lot, and the amount soaking its way through the cloths and towels was growing. Legolas was pale and looked terrified, Gimli finally quiet; he wasn't sure if the dwarf was still conscious.

Lindir clutched the child, now also quiet, to his chest. Whatever else any may say or think, he could not bring himself to think ill of her.

ooooo

The crowd outside the locked door had more or less dispersed by dawn. Now mid-morning, the Last Homely House East of the Sea was quiet and still.

A few elves lingered over breakfast, whispering amongst themselves. As always, gossip spread quickly. There was no longer an elf in Imladris who did not know that Legolas, son of Thranduil, prince of Mirkwood, had taken a dwarf for a wife. It would not be too long before the news reached the ears of the woodland king himself. _Oh, what would he say?_

A hastily bathed and changed but still slightly disheveled Lord Elrond finally appeared again in the hallways of Imladris. He pretended not to notice the many eyes boring into his back as he passed, all dropping hastily when he turned to meet them. Some of them were probably just curious, but he knew what many of them were probably thinking.

He stopped in one hallway and leaned against a wall, resting his tired head against the cool stonework. Laughter reached him from around a nearby corner, and it did not sound good-humored.

"Oh Trathron, just wait until old Thranduil hears of this! They'll have to peel him off the ceiling!"

"It's hardly a matter for jest, nothing good will come of this, mark my word. If this doesn't lead to war between Erebor and Mirkwood, I'll eat my own boots. I can't believe Thranduil's own son… with that _ugly_ little _dwarf_! I am only glad that we shall be departing these shores soon, if misguided fools think it's a bright idea breeding up a brood of… whatever-it-is, some kind of dwarf-elf-_mule_"

That was it. Enough. Lord Elrond righted himself and rounded the corner.

"A _mule_, is it? Is that what you say, Trathron? And what, then, would you call _me_?"

Trathron froze like a thief caught in the act, while his companion, Gledhril, stood in silence behind him, suddenly finding her own shoes to be a matter of great interest.

"L... L... Lord Elrond!"

Lord Elrond glared at the both of them with no intention of moving until he had a reply.

"I… I did not know you were there, I meant no offence toward you or your kin… I mean… obviously that's a completely different situation! Entirely unrelated!"

"Am I truly so different from the daughter of Legolas, Trathron? Do you not know the meaning of my name, why I am called _Peredhel,_ the Half-Elven?"

Elrond noticed with satisfaction that Trathron was beginning to sweat profusely.

"Yes, m'lord… but—"

"But, _what, _Trathron?

Elrond leaned forward, using his greater height to his advantage, pushing his way a bit into Trathron's space just _so_ (and he knew it was a tad petty to take so much pleasure in another's discomfiture, but somewhere during previous day and night, Elrond had ceased to care about the tender feelings of idle gossipers with cruel tongues).

Elrond watched a small battle rage across Trathron's expression. Eventually his self-righteous contempt finally won out over his fear of Elrond's wrath.

"…but a… a… _dwarf!_"

Elrond was tempted to just issue a nice slap to the other elf's cheek, but he doubt it would do any good. He stepped back but did not lower his sharp gaze.

"You would do well to keep your tongue behind your teeth, Trathron. Legolas and his family are my guests in this house. And as for dwarves… as the time of the Elves in Arda comes to a close, it is a great shame and regret to me that we have never reconciled our disagreements with them, nor learned to appreciate their gifts for what they are, rather than merely what they can do for us."

He looked past Trathron at Gledhril, catching her eyes as she tentatively lifted her head. Her face reddened and she immediately returned to her staring contest with her shoes.

_Oh Valar, I am far, far too old for this._

ooooo

Legolas sat only half awake by Gimli's bedside in an old rocking chair that Lindir had just pulled into the room from somewhere dusty. His baby girl was dozing in his arms, her eyes closed in sleep in the manner of both dwarves and men. She would need a name, but his mind was drawing a blank at the moment. There would be time enough find something fitting.

His wife was sleeping also, snoring softly beside him despite the lingering pain; it had taken some time for Elrond to staunch the bleeding several hours ago. Elrond had assured him that Gimli's life was in no danger, but she would need time to heal. Their stay in Imladris was apparently to be an extended one. Fangorn and the glittering caves were going to have to wait, he supposed.

ooooo

Legolas had nodded off entirely when a voice and a soft hand on his shoulder roused him. He wasn't quite sure what was being said to him or requested of him, but after Lord Elrond's hands lifted his daughter from his arms and turned toward Gimli, he shook the drowsiness from his head.

Gimli was not pleased when Elrond roused her, grumbling in her usual fashion, but forgot her complaints soon enough as her baby girl was finally handed to her. Elrond stepped back and seated himself in the chair Lindir had occupied the night before to give the small family a bit of space.

"Oh, she's beautiful, Legolas. She has your sweet blue eyes."

"Babies nearly always have blue eyes. I'd wager they'll turn brown, like yours."

"No, laddie, they'll stay blue – I said so and so they shall."

Legolas rolled his own blue eyes but continued grinning like a fool.

Elrond laughed to himself at the disgustingly sappy tableau before him from his seat in the corner before clearing his throat to get Gimli's attention.

"Do you know how to feed her?"

Gimli managed to look like the picture of offended dignity despite the utter disarray of hair and beard.

"I assume she is to be fed like every other babe in Arda! Or do elves have some special secret way? Don't tell me she has to eat that bland waybread of yours, pretty sure that would qualify as brutality."

"Hardly. But do please say something if you are having any difficulty, it is not uncommon."

Gimli waved him off as she turned her attention back to her daughter who was, indeed, now awake. Legolas helped Gimli up to sit, gathering pillows behind her back, and opened her gown for her, sneaking a quick kiss while settling their daughter in her proper place. Legolas tried desperately not to laugh when Gimli suddenly tucked her beard around the babe like a makeshift blanket and earned a sharp pinch to his arm when he failed.

"By the way, we can't just call her 'sweet thing' and 'dear one' and such, lad, no matter how well they fit her. She needs a proper name, and soon."

Legolas left off rubbing the impressive bruise that was forming on his bicep.

"I was hoping you would have some ideas, actually."

Gimli's stern glare did not shift.

"It's tradition for the father or his kin to choose a name, and it must be done by the end of the day."

Legolas stared at his wife and daughter for a long time, occasionally rubbing at his brow or tugging at a lock of hair. He looked beseeching at Lord Elrond, who still sat quietly across the room.

"What will you name her, Legolas Greenleaf? She is something new to this world."

He was speaking more to himself than to Legolas; for all his sympathy for the new father's confusion, it was not Elrond's place to choose a name.

_Something new_, thought Legolas.

_Cíweth_

"Her name is 'Cíweth'."

Gimli lifted an eyebrow.

"….Cíweth? Really?"

She could barely pronounce it…. well, tradition is tradition. So be it.

"Oh fine, 'Cíweth' it is. Even if it is absurd. Still better than 'Legolas' I suppose."

"And just what is wrong with 'Legolas' pray tell?"

"It's as utterly silly and ridiculous as the one what bears it, that's what!"

Legolas nearly felt cross, but hearing Gimli's rich laughter for the first time in weeks was worth the insult. He half expected the baby to complain at her mother's sudden outburst, but Cíweth didn't seem to mind.

ooooo

_I'll never get used to this_, Legolas thought. _Not in the passing of an Age. Two Ages, even_.

He leaned against a post in the shade of Lord Elrond's private porch, silently watching Gimli as she sat in the gentle sunlight of Imladris nursing Cíweth (who, as usual, was nearly wholly covered under her dwarf mother's beard save for a few curls of reddish-blonde hair) chatting amiably with none other than Glorfindel himself. Somehow Gimli had managed to turn the subject around to that of Balrogs, of all cursed things… how she could sit calmly with her child and make light of the terror they all had faced in Moria, and what Glorfindel himself had done so long ago, finding cause in it to _laugh _even… Legolas shook his head in disbelief.

At least Glorfindel seemed good-humored about it rather than offended; Legolas did not know if he could stand the mortification of his wife insulting such a revered figure (Gimli's never-ending stream of sarcasm in front of Lord Elrond was humiliating enough).

And then there was the fact that his dwarf was wearing a _dress_ of all things. It was a dark, rich navy blue, nearly black, with a simple trim of silver, and rather less frilly than anything a new elvish mother would wear (thank the Valar; Gimli complained enough as it was), but it was clearly of elvish make and the contrast to its wearer was startling, to say the least. Legolas could not remember ever seeing Gimli in anything other than trousers and armor, even at Aragorn's coronation and wedding.

Now Gimli's traveling pack and armor were stashed in a corner of their rooms, axes leaned against the wall along with Legolas' own weapons. In the end, Gimli's usual kit had proven to be highly impractical for a nursing mother. After a week in Imladris, they had been approached by a shy elf maid by the name of Cuguthel with some skill as a seamstress, offering her help. Legolas worried at first that Gimli would never allow it, but she soon realized the necessity of it. Legolas had been summarily dismissed from the room as Cuguthel went to work taking measurements, though given the shouting and complaining that issued forth from the closed door, Cuguthel had clearly had her task cut out for her.

Legolas was grateful for the seamstress's generosity and apparently endless patience, especially given that half of Imladris were still giving his family a wide berth when not whispering behind their backs. They had friends here, but only a few.

Their daughter was growing quickly, more quickly than elven children are apt to, though more slowly than typical dwarf children. He, Gimli and Elrond had needed a long discussion about the matter a fortnight ago, mostly to assuage Gimli's worries over the health of their child. They all eventually agreed that it was just a blessing she did not grow so fast as the children of men, as there was enough trouble keeping her dressed, even with Cuguthel's sewing.

Legolas breathed in deeply through his nose, trying to calm his nerves. Nearly a month had passed since he had finally consented to allow Lord Elrond to send word to Thranduil of what had transpired, nearly a week after Gimli had insisted herself the same be done to her own father in Erebor.

Some kind of reply should have arrived by now, if any were going to be sent. Gimli's own kin were, according to a note delivered by one of the mountain's ravens, currently on their way toward Rivendell, and should arrive any day now. Thranduil's silence lay heavy on his heart.

ooooo

The arrival of three more dwarves early one morning in Rivendell set tongues wagging anew. Gimli watched for a moment from an overlooking balcony as her father Gloin dismounted from his pony first, followed by her mother, Unli. Behind them came his cousin Dwalin, bearing a few new scars and his beard streaked with more gray than Gimli had remembered, but looking grim and hale as ever.

Gimli decided at that moment she had never seen a more welcome sight in her life and rushed down the hallway, running past Legolas before he could even enquire as to the cause of her haste.

Lord Elrond was in the middle of a formal greeting to the visitors when Gimli all but flew through the gap between him and Lindir, turning just slightly to avoid a collision with the elves only to land heavily in Gloin's outstretched arms.

Gloin turned with the impact, lifting his daughter off her feet momentarily and bringing their foreheads together in an impact that would leave anyone but a hard-headed dwarf in a daze. Dwalin huffed in displeasure behind them. Unli merely laughed at their disregard for protocol and stepped in front of them to offer Lord Elrond and Lindir a bow and "at your service" in their stead.

Gloin moved to stand properly, but Gimli did not release her grip on his neck.

"Aye lass, I'm happy to see you too."

Another moment passed.

"Eh… ye need to le' me go, darlin'."

He dropped a quick kiss on his daughter's forehead and gently pried her off.

"Sorry, da… just happy to see everyone. Getting a bit tired of all these bloody elves is all."

Gloin laughed and pulled Gimli ahead of him, winking at Elrond as they passed. Dwalin followed silently and Unli smiled sweetly at him.

"I think we can find our way from here, thank you."

Lindir stared at their backs as they passed, wincing at the oncoming headache he felt as he remembered the chaos left behind the last time they had entertained a party of dwarves.

"If they go anywhere _near_ our fountains, so help me…."

ooooo

Unli shuffled ahead of Dwalin to join her husband at their daughter's side.

"Well, Gimli, where's the bairn? We came all this way to see her, after all."

Gimli spied Legolas standing at the end of the hallway near their rooms, waiting for them.

"Still sleepin' I imagine. She would not settle last night, finally got her down a couple hours ago."

Her mother laughed but not unkindly.

"You were no different as a wee thing, kept me up many a night. Perhaps now you'll appreciate me and your father just a bit more!"

Gimli barely heard her mother's comment as they approached Legolas. She left her parents' side and rushed ahead to pull her husband into their rooms, not wanting this particular meeting to occur in plain view (the gossip in Imladris may have waned over the past weeks, but had certainly not died, and she was about sick of hearing it).

The rest of her kin piled in after her and she shut the door swiftly behind them.

Dwalin parted from his cousins' reunion, going over immediately to peer into an old crib situated between the bed and a large window.

_Mahal bless, look at those ears!_

The messenger had not been lying, then. There was no doubting the girl was half-elven. He half hoped that it was all a trick, and he was merely looking at an overgrown hobbit babe, but he knew the truth. _Poor mite, she's not gonna have it easy_. He reached into the crib with a gentleness one would not expect such a warrior capable of. Dwalin lifted his youngest (and certainly strangest) cousin without waking her and turned to bring her to the rest of the family.

He had to wait for moment, though, as Gloin was currently occupied with keeping the tall blond elf all but pinned against the corner of the room with a hard gaze.

"So this is the one, then, lass?"

"Yes, da. Legolas—"

"Yes, yes, we've met b'fore…. I remember yer father's good hospitality well enough, elf. Cozy… as far as dungeons go."

Legolas felt like he had swallowed something foul. The mention of his father, dungeons or otherwise, did nothing to lessen his suffering.

"Where is the old goat, by the way? I would've expected him to arrive before us, being closer an' all. Ye _did_ send word to him, did ye not? I suppose ye owe him that much… not that I care, particularly."

Legolas was slow to reply, unsure of how best to misdirect or excuse. He gave up and settled for the simple truth, such is it was.

"A message was sent. He has not replied."

"Hm."

Gloin stepped back from the elf, his prickliness abating suddenly. Legolas wasn't sure whether the hint of pity he saw in the dwarf was better or worse than the blustering paternal animosity it replaced.

Legolas was grateful when the dwarves' attention shifted away from him to the baby. He was happy to let them coo and fuss over his daughter; at least they seemed to accept _her_, which was more important anyway. He withdrew and seated himself next to the fireplace, content to let the family of dwarves catch up with one another.

ooooo

A couple weeks passed quickly, and suddenly they were packing their things.

"Have you seen the halls of Erebor, love?"

Legolas shook his head as he folded the last of Cíweth's clothes, sparing a glance across the room where his daughter slept soundly in the old crib. He had been to Dale on occasion, and aided in trade agreements with both the men of Dale and the dwarves of Erebor, but he had never been invited inside that mountain. Few elves and men could claim so.

Legolas carefully placed the clothes into a bag, trying not to rumple them too badly, although the road would likely do it for him anyway. Cuguthel had made a few extra gowns in larger sizes for her to grow into as a parting gift. Legolas decided he would miss her shy, quiet way. She had done much to make his wife and daughter feel welcome, unlike most of Lord Elrond's people (Lindir and Glorfindel excepted).

"Then you are in for a treat! A living dwarf city is a far fairer sight than what you saw in Moria."

Gimli fell silent after mentioning her cousin's burial place. Legolas knew that the violent loss of Balin was a wound in her heart that would likely never go away entirely, and the desecration of Khazad-dûm a tragedy in itself.

Dwalin and Gimli's parents had left them to go retrieve their ponies and Legolas' horse from the stables. They would be setting out for Erebor in a matter of hours.

Everything of his own packed up, Legolas kneeled and pulled Gimli into an embrace from behind, parting her thick hair to kiss at the sensitive skin of her neck (who would have ever guessed that the thick-skinned dwarves hid such soft places beneath all that hair?). Gimli paused in her own packing and sighed quietly as she leaned into him and placed a hand over his where it lay over her heart.

"They'll be returning soon, love."

Legolas gave her one last parting kiss at the bare patch of skin just under her ear and stood. They'd had precious little privacy in the past three months since they first entered this valley of elves, and it had taken nearly that long for Gimli to heal properly. Legolas did not know if he would ever feel comfortable among Gimli's kin, either. He was not a dwarf any more than Gimli was an elf. And their daughter? Only time would reveal her fate and fortune.

"I'm going to walk for a while. I'd like to take a last look at Rivendell before we leave."

Gimli nodded silently, understanding his feelings despite their differing opinions on the virtues of Imladris.

The day was warm but not hot, a few insects buzzing about and the sound of birds nesting in the trees the only disturbance to the air. A few of Elrond's people were about but most were out of sight somewhere, going about their own business. They seemed to have finally lost interest in Legolas and the dwarves now that they were leaving.

Legolas left the house to stroll along one of the paths which wound its way through the gardens and surrounding forest valley. Imladris was truly a place of beauty and a reflection of the blessings of Eldar, and he was loathe to depart from it, though he understood all too well his wife's desire to be among her own.

Imladris may be the closest thing to a home he would ever have again, he suddenly thought, and soon it would be bereft not only of himself and his family, but Lord Elrond's people as well.

He thought of it empty and untended, left to the ministrations of bird and beast, and the slow creep of time and nature, falling into crumbling stone and moss. Such would be the fate of all the homes of the Firstborn in Arda. Already the gardens were more overgrown than he'd last seen them, with fewer hands now remaining to tend to them, and less with each passing year.

What sort of life would his Cíweth have? Would the dwarves grant her a home among them after her mother and father were gone? He prayed fervently to the Valar that she would find her own love and perhaps even have her own children someday if she so wished, maybe preserving a small reflection of his kin in the world long after they had all departed or faded, as the blood of Elrond's kin might remain through the descendents of Aragorn and Arwen.

A soft hand on his shoulder startled him out of his ruminations. He looked back to see none other than Lord Elrond himself, but his kind face did nothing to lessen the pain in Legolas' heart.

"Do not mourn over your impending departure, Legolas… or ours. You and your family will have joyful days ahead of you yet."

Legolas attempted to smile at Elrond's words, which were meant kindly but which he could not quite believe. Elrond moved to stand beside Legolas, folding his hands behind his back and looking out into the valley in front of them.

Legolas held his breath for a moment, knowing instinctively the subject that was to discussed.

"I have spoken with Gimli's kinfolk this morning about their planned route for your journey to Erebor. As you well know, the quickest path is through your father's realm, and with such a young child among you, haste is necessary. They insist that they cannot delay any longer to wait for a reply to your message to Thranduil, as there is some sort of dwarvish ceremony they intend to carry out with Cíweth as soon as possible, and that it must be done at their mountain."

Legolas continued to stare silently at the greenery in font of them.

"Legolas, look at me."

He kept his face straight forward, steadfastly ignoring the stinging in his eyes. _It's only the wind_, he told himself.

The gentle but insistent press of fingers against his chin finally made him turn, but he could not quite meet Elrond's eyes directly.

"Legolas, you cannot avoid your father forever. I cannot tell you what has stayed his reply, but you must face him soon. I fear the longer you put this off, the more the both of you shall suffer."

Legolas raised his eyes to meet Elrond at last, and an elf who had faced orcs, trolls, a Balrog and the vast armies of Sauron himself could not prevent a single treacherous tear which suddenly slipped free.

ooooo

Elrond had half a mind to ride out to the Greenwood himself and take Thranduil to task over the wretched silence he had cast upon the shoulders of his own son. His messengers had privately assured him many times over the past weeks that their message had been faithfully delivered, but nothing issued forth from the gates of Thranduil's kingdom; repeated envoys reported that the king's guards merely shrugged and stated that they had been forbidden to discuss the matter.

Elrond could not fathom treating Arwen or his sons in so callous a manner, no matter how angry or sorrowful he might be at their decisions. It was not his place to interfere between Thranduil and his son, he knew, but the temptation was a strong one.

Gimli's kin had packed and mounted their ponies, and Legolas was upon his horse. Gimli leaned up from behind him to whisper something in his ear as their daughter slept in a sturdy sling against Gimli's breast between them. Elrond stood with Lindir and Glorfindel as he watched the dwarrowdam re-seat herself and gently rub between Legolas' shoulder blades while the party urged their mounts forward. He somehow knew he would not see them again in this world and silently prayed to the Valar, and to Eru Himself, that their days would be blessed as they rode away from his valley.

ooooo

Gimli was deeply concerned about her husband. They'd been on the road for some days now and he had, if anything, grown quieter and more solemn. She missed his laughter, his easy smile. Half the time he clung to their daughter as though someone were planning to snatch her out of his arms. His mood seemed even to unsettle the child, her crying becoming more frequent as the summer days wore on.

Even her cousin Dwalin was beginning to take notice of his growing distress, but nothing any of them said or did soothed him in the least. They all knew, of course. The Greenwood loomed directly ahead, and while it no longer held the threat of ravenous spiders or necromancers, Legolas gazed upon his old home with all the dread with which a condemned prisoner might look upon the executioner's scaffold.

They had already passed over the ford at the Anduin and would enter Thranduil's borders within the hour and there was simply nothing to be done for it.

ooooo

Two days they passed under the dense branches of the forest without difficulty or challenge (other than the natural wariness of the dwarves in an environment so alien to their nature), but their luck had apparently run out.

A host of sylvan guards stood directly in their path. Legolas recognized them well enough. At one time he had counted them all as friends, but now he did not know what to expect of them.

They reflected his own uncertainty as they glanced nervously at one another, no doubt delaying what they knew must be done.

Dwalin and Gloin dismounted and placed a hand each to their axe handles; Unli remained seated but slipped a hand into a hidden pocket to palm the handle of a concealed dagger.

Gimli herself slipped off the horse behind him before he could prevent her and strode forward, one hand placed firmly over the head of the babe strapped to her chest and another to the axe in her belt. She found her voice quickly enough as well.

"What cause have you to prevent the passage of me and my kin? We of Erebor have treaty with your king for safe passage upon this road, as you well know!"

The guards hesitated amongst themselves a moment more and one finally stepped forward, his voice carefully controlled as he glanced back and forth between the dwarves and his prince.

"We are aware of our treaties, good dwarf. Our business is not with you, but with the king's son. He has been summoned to his father's halls and we have been charged with his escort."

Gimli resisted the urge to spit at their feet. If her daughter had not been with her, she felt she would have taken them all on at once with a hand tied behind her back. Dwalin and Gloin came up to position themselves behind her as she replied.

"My husband will go only where he so chooses, _elf_."

Legolas was taken aback at the sight before him. Three stout dwarves, his wife at the head of them, stood between him and his own people, willing to risk war with his father's kingdom to spare him.

_This has all gone quite far enough_, he decided. It was cowardly to hide from one's own father and, while he would never willingly abandon his wife and child for any other kith or kin, he still had an obligation to at least explain himself to his sire, whatever the consequences.

He dismounted and moved past the dwarves, giving Gimli's shoulder a firm squeeze as he came to stand beside her.

"Peace… I will answer my father's summons."

He looked to Gimli, hoping she would not press the matter in her usual bullheaded fashion.

"Gimli, love, you and your kin need not come with me. Take our daughter and go ahead, I will catch up when my business here is finished."

"Forget it, son, yer family now to us also, and we're coming along. Let Thranduil try and stop us."

Gloin this time, to Legolas' astonishment. He looked back at the dwarves; Dwalin nodded gravely and Unli smirked at him under her braids.

ooooo

The guards had escorted them all through their gates with little ceremony; Legolas had attempted conversation on the familiar path, but his questions were met with a mixture of sympathetic looks and silence.

They were greeted with the sight of a vacant throne when they reached the heart of Thranduil's home. Dwalin and Gloin now milled about with goblets of wine in their hands, taking in the sights of a place they'd not been in a position to appreciate during their last stay.

Gimli was seated nearby with Cíweth, who now busied herself playing with her mother's braids. Curious onlookers had gathered around the periphery of their space while Gimli had nursed and then changed her child just earlier, but Gimli was past the point of caring about the harsh judgment of elves so long as they left her and her family well alone.

The dwarves had nearly come again to the point of violence when the guards had tried to usher Legolas away without them, but Legolas had again placated them and gone willingly. They knew some matters must be dealt with privately, but had every intention of reducing Thranduil to many small pieces if Legolas did not return to them in the same condition that he had left them.

ooooo

Legolas stood in the wan, leaf-filtered light that poured through the windows of his father's personal chambers, as straight as a young tree, waiting for the king to address him.

Thranduil's back was to him, his gaze pointed down through the foliage at the river below; the sound of their soft breathing and a mild breeze coming in competed with the roar of his own blood in Legolas' ears.

Thranduil's voice came as little more than a whisper.

"When, Legolas?"

The younger elf blinked in confusion. When? When, what? When had he fallen in love with Gimli? When had they wed? When had their child been born? There were too many possible answers. His mouth worked silently like that of a hooked fish; he could produce no reply.

Thranduil turned subtly, not removing his gaze from the window but shifting almost imperceptibly toward his son. His words were measured and calm, but something more volatile boiled beneath them.

"When were you planning on telling me?

Legolas bit back the returning threat of tears, reminding himself that his wife and daughter and their kin waited for him outside, whatever happened this day. He considered his father's question, one he had asked himself time and time.

"I… don't know."

Thranduil's silence filled the room for a long moment. His next words were firmer in tone than his previous ones, that boiling something sending up bubbles to pop at the surface of his voice.

"Were you planning on telling me _at all_?"

Finally, the woodland king turned around to face his son, his expression unreadable.

"If this unexpected child had not come to force the issue, _would you have ever said a word of it_?"

Legolas did not even notice when he stepped back from his father, the anger in the king's voice shocking his son into silence. Legolas dropped his gaze to the trim of his father's robes, unable to withstand the intensity of his eyes any longer. Suddenly he felt very young again, like a child caught after breaking something precious he'd been told not to touch.

"I… I didn't think you would understand—"

The pain in Thranduil's voice finally broke through to the surface, erupting at last.

"Understand, Legolas, _understand_? How could I? _HOW COULD I_? What you have done... no, I do _not_ understand it."

Thranduil paused, breathing deeply as he made another attempt to control his voice.

"You are my _son_, Legolas. I will not pretend that I am not astonished. I will not deny that I am deeply angry with what you have done. But _you should have told me_!"

Thranduil again turned his back on his son.

"Do you have so little love for your own father? So little faith? Why did I learn of this, not from my own blood, but from some _envoy of Imladris_?!"

The king's fist landed on the desk beneath the window with violence. Legolas flinched despite himself; shame clogged his throat.

Thranduil roughly dragged a hand through his long hair, leaving it mussed out of place as he turned back to his son; Legolas had never seen him do such a thing in his life. They stared at each other in a tense silence for what felt like an eternity.

Surprisingly, it was Thranduil who broke away first

"I don't know you anymore, Legolas. Perhaps I never did. Never in my wildest dreams or deepest nightmares could I have forseen… this."

Legolas had no idea how to even begin to reply to such a statement. A part of him wanted to run into his father's arms as he had done as a child, to be held and comforted, but it seemed utterly impossible now. Thranduil covered his face with a shaking hand.

"Take the child to Erebor. Perhaps they will know better what to do with her."

'_And you'_ seemed to Legolas to be the unspoken conclusion. He briefly lifted a hand, wanting to reach out to his father, to comfort _him_ in some way, but he was unable to do so. He turned silently and slowly walked toward the door. His hand was upon it when he turned back.

"I am sorry, adar."

Thranduil's reply was little more than a whisper, reaching Legolas across the room as though from a great distance.

"You are still my son, Legolas, and my love for you cannot be broken so easily… but I cannot bring myself to forgive you today. In time…"

The king shook his head and turned back to his window, dismissing his prodigal offspring.

ooooo

The rest of the journey to Erebor was quiet but far less tense. The dwarves seemed ever more determined to lay claim to Legolas and pull him further into their midst. Dwalin had shocked him from head to toe by declaring that he must begin learning Khuzdul as soon as possible, and even Gloin agreed (so long as he swore not to share it with any dratted elves, of course, and now you're officially an overgrown pointy-eared _dwarf_ so just accept it laddie and stop arguing with yer da). Legolas suspected it all had as much to do with spite toward his father as anything else, but their apparent acceptance warmed him nonetheless.

Even the suspicious looks and cold welcome he had received at the gates of the dwarf kingdom in the Lonely Mountain could not dampen his renewed spirits. He had his wife and his daughter. He knew it would not be simple or easy, but in time he would regain his father and kin as well.

There was Fangorn to look forward to. He even smiled at the thought of the Glittering Caves (Gimli now spoke often of plans to eventually take a whole host of dwarves to those caves and begin a new kingdom to rival the glory even of Moria at its peak, with Legolas and Cíweth at her side, and there was no use arguing).

As Legolas now walked the halls of Erebor with Cíweth babbling at him in his arms and his wife striding ahead of him, he thought perhaps the Fourth Age would not just be a time of endings, but also a time of beginnings, and the bringing forth of new things.

ooooo

The lady draped an arm over her husband's shoulder as he leaned upon his hammer, both of them looking out as if watching at a great distance. He felt rather than saw her smile, and placed a hand on her arm, returning the warmth he felt from his wife.

"I don't think they quite expected that one, my love."

"Oh, certainly not."

She laughed warmly, planting a kiss to his cheek.

"I think they make quite an adorable little family."

She felt deep laughter rising from within his broad chest.

"Who could think otherwise?"

"Only fools, darling. Only fools."

Yavanna pull her husband's chin toward her, kissing Aulë deeply before departing, leaving him to return to his forge.


	2. Thranduil's Granddaughter

EPILOGUE

He was well aware of the irony of it, of the contradiction.

If asked, he would have stated firmly that he had cast aside his son's debts entirely, forgiven and forgotten, but the pain and anger were still there slinking about deep beneath the surface. He didn't mean to hold on to it, but it would seem that some wounds left scars that can be felt, even when they cannot be seen. They mostly got around it by simply not discussing certain subjects. He did _try_ not to let come up to the surface and _most_ of the time he succeeded.

He had even come to almost _tolerate_ his son's wife and her kin, over time. He supposed they weren't _quite_ as horrible as most dwarves.

When his wrath had finally abated enough to face him, he'd sent the summons to Erebor, unsure if he would even receive a reply, much less one in the positive, given the nature of their last parting.

The day came when the small family had finally arrived on his doorstep mid-afternoon on an overcast early autumn day with his five-year old granddaughter carried in his son's arms.

He fell in love with _her_ at once, her round red cheeks and gap-toothed smile, the long points of her oversized ears sticking out from a riot of red-blonde curls. Never had such a child stood in his halls; nay, in the wide world itself, and she belong to _him_ (well, in fact it was quite the other way around, but that suited him just fine).

ooooo

Their family home remained in Erebor, but Cíweth began to complain before too long if they did not make a visit to Daeradar in the Greenwood, and it became customary to spend several weeks in Thranduil's home at least once or twice a year.

Gimli did not always accompany her husband & daughter, often staying behind to keep up with her work. There was still much planning and gathering of supplies and scrutiny of volunteers and potential settlers to be done before they left for the Glittering Caves in the spring. Her life's work was nearing fruition at last.

She had seen off her husband and daughter a week ago, fussing over Cíweth's packing as usual, not wanting her daughter to be missing any essentials before heading out. Gimli still did not trust the elves to properly provide for her daughter, especially now as she was growing into a fine young dwarrowdam (not _elleth _blast it!) and had more considerations than when she had been a wee lass. They would be nearing Thranduil's gates soon enough, and her da was there to keep an eye on her and hopefully out of too much trouble (at least when Legolas was not causing it himself).

ooooo

Thranduil stood on a balcony overlooking the archery range, watching his granddaughter working with one of his archers. She had overshot a small target half-hidden in the trees thrice now and her tutor's impatience was beginning to show. He'd have to talk with Rusgon later about his manners.

He'd sent Legolas out with a small pack of scouts on a routine patrol of his lands and borders as he often did during their visits, not wanting his son to fall too out of practice and too far into the dwarvish habits and mannerisms he had lamentably absorbed from his years among the _naugrim_ in Erebor (he swore he'd heard some phrase of Khuzdul issue from the mouth of his child during their last visit, but his ears _must_ have been deceiving him). He'd taken to pestering Legolas lately, trying to convince him to move back to his true home, but every time he broached the subject, he was politely thanked for his offer and refused.

And now, apparently, they'd all be packing up and moving to some new hole soon. Thranduil didn't care how much these caves supposedly glittered, though, they weren't a proper home for a growing young elleth (not _dwarrowdam_ blast it!).

Cíweth hit the target perfectly this time, despite his guard's perennial skepticism about her potential as an archer. She'd been slow to pick up the skill, but with a bit of patience and repetition, she was doing well enough. For much of her childhood, she had been only a bit shorter than an elf of the same developmental age, but her growth had slowed considerably as she entered adolescence; apparently her dwarvish blood was not content to be suppressed entirely.

She was still a full foot shorter than any of his subjects and had been practicing with a child's bow until quite recently, having only just outgrown it. With nothing fitting in his armories, he'd had a new bow fashioned for her after her last visit, made to fit her broader hands and shorter fingers, with a more appropriate draw length and a few other changes to accommodate her small stature without sacrificing too much power and accuracy.

He'd taken the time to sit down with his most skilled bowyer and oversee every aspect of the design, right down to the decorative accents of the matching quiver and arrows. The pure joy in her face when he'd gifted it to her upon her and Legolas' arrival the day before had been worth all the trouble and expense.

Other evidence of her mixed ancestry had recently made itself known as well, but Thranduil tried not to dwell on it. They'd all assumed she'd have no beard, as most dwarf children had some evidence of future growth within the first few years of life, but only in the last twelve months had Cíweth's finally appeared (although by dwarf standards, calling the soft, thin curls that now traced down from her ears to border her cheeks and jawline, ending in a little pointed tuft at her chin, an actual _beard_, was a bit of a stretch).

He'd mostly managed to hide his shock the day before; she had just smiled brightly and made light of it, giving it a tug and turning her head one side to the other as though showing it off. Whatever she looked like, she was still his princess, and he was still her Daeradar, the Valar themselves could not change that.

ooooo

"Your archery is progressing well, my princess."

Cíweth only smiled at him in return, taking another bite and chewing her dinner thoughtfully. She sat at her grandfather's left hand, her father on his other side, a few of his subjects around the rest of the table while others served them. It had been fortnight since they arrived and she was becoming accustomed to her new bow and hitting her practice targets fairly consistently, had even begun practicing shooting from horseback for the first time.

Meanwhile her father mostly busied himself with old friends and her grandfather's ample wine cellars, dropping in from time to time to watch her shooting and offer his own tutelage.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No, Daeradar. I'm only a bit tired."

Thranduil did not press further. She required nearly as much rest as her mother's people, sleeping most nights for several hours with her eyes closed against the world. When she had first visited him, it had been an unsettling sight, but it no longer seemed foreign to him those times when he opened her door to glance in and check on her in the middle of the night.

Still, her mood seemed unusually subdued lately, and despite sometimes finding himself impatient with her, Thranduil missed the stream of chatter that usually accompanied their dinners tonight.

"How are your studies coming along?"

"Uh, Cousin Dwalin's been teaching me to do horse shoes at his forge an' he says if I do well I might get to start blades in the spring. An' Ma says she'll begin Khuzdul lessons properly at the beginning of the new year."

Thranduil was glad she was looking at her plate and not his current expression. _Why must they make her into such a DWARF_? he thought. He was glad his son had possessed the forethought to at least ensure she knew Sindarin fluently. He didn't know if his heart could take it if she only ever spoke the tongues of men and dwarves.

He gave her an appraising look; she was obviously keeping something to herself. He hated to see her unhappy, for any reason.

"And all your little friends?"

Cíweth shrugged and looked down, taking another bite of her dinner. Thranduil and Legolas had spoken about this issue in the past; Cíweth had difficulty often enough with her few peers at Erebor, they knew well enough that she was _different_ even when they were all little more than babies, and as children were rare among dwarves, she had only a handful of similarly-aged playmates to choose from.

Thranduil had sometimes found himself almost wishing that elflings had been born more recently than half a millennium ago in Greenwood, regardless of all the noise and mess and trouble they brought, just for Cíweth to have some _proper_ playmates in her _proper_ home. Unlike those in Imladris and Lothlorien, his people had not started a mass exodus into the West, only a few left now and then, but the pace of life had slowed considerably in recent centuries. His people did not seem inclined to start new families lately and only now that he had a granddaughter did he feel an emptiness in it.

Cíweth finally swallowed what she'd been slowly and quite thoroughly chewing and decided to reply.

"Same as always. Well… I had to give Badar a bloody nose last month since he wouldn't stop pulling at my ears and making fun of my beard, but he doesn't bother me anymore."

Thranduil didn't know who this "Badar" was, but he filed the name away; if the dwarfling ever showed up on the road through his Greenwood, he'd find himself in one of the dungeons so fast his beard would spin.

ooooo

Thranduil found Cíweth sitting in his personal study, her nose buried in a book on the diseases of ash trees and their various cures. It seemed an odd choice of reading material for a young girl.

On closer examination, she seemed to be barely reading it anyway, her eyes resting on the same spot of the same page for several minutes.

"Princess?"

She nearly jumped out of her seat, having not noticed his presence.

"I thought you'd still be at practice with your new bow."

She glanced up from the book.

"Rusgon's in a foul mood, I didn't want to bother him further."

Thranduil lifted one sculpted eyebrow. If his head archer was getting an attitude with his granddaughter again…

"Shall I speak to him? I don't want you falling behind. It's bad enough you don't practice properly when you're holed up in that drafty old mountain."

Normally she would tease him in return when he made such comments about Erebor, but today she just sighed at him and dropped her book into her lap.

"No… no, I needed a break anyway."

Thranduil wasn't quite convinced, but decided to leave her in peace. She was fast approaching that troublesome age when children become secretive and difficult. Despite the long years, he still remembered Legolas at the same age; he'd certainly been no better, in fact he'd been a right pain in the—

Well, his sweet Cíweth was unlikely to steal his horses in a fit of pique and run off for months with a pack of unruly friends, anyway.

ooooo

The next morning, he knew he'd made a mistake in leaving his granddaughter alone with her unhappy thoughts the night before. As he walked past her room, the door was cracked open slightly, a sliver of morning sunlight spilling into the hallway. He considered checking on her, but paused and nearly left her to her privacy when he heard a sharp cry.

"Princess?"

She didn't reply, but he pushed the door open anyhow. She was seated in front of her vanity, hunched over in front of the large mirror with one hand pressed to the side of her face and the other obscured by her body.

As he walked quietly toward her, he saw a spot of red on her neck.

"Princess… what on Arda?"

He rushed across the room to her side and saw immediately what she had done. The small knife she typically kept strapped to the ankle of her boot was held loosely in the hand that rested on the vanity. The knife was a tool, not a weapon, but had a keenly sharp blade - it had been a birthday gift to her from her maternal grandfather Gloin several years ago, and being the work of a dwarven master blacksmith, had not lost its edge despite much use and abuse.

Soft curls from her cheek now lay scattered in her lap and in their place was a deep cut where her hand had slipped badly.

Thranduil knelt beside his granddaughter, pulling a silk handkerchief from his robes and mopping at the tears and blood marring her face before pressing it hard against the cut.

"What have you done, dear Cíweth?"

She began to sob in earnest, fat tears streaming from her eyes; for all her lately grown-up appearance, he was sharply reminded that she was still a child. He held the rich cloth, now ruined, firmly against the wound with one hand and steadied her head with the other.

"They all hate me, Daeradar!"

"Shhh, Princess. Nobody hates you." _Nobody that will live to see tomorrow, if I have anything to do about it._

"Everyone says I don't have a proper beard an' I'm too tall an' have funny ears an' tha' I'm not a proper dwarf an'—"

Thranduil lifted the cloth slightly to check the wound; it was still bleeding freely. It would need a stitch or two to close it and he prayed it would not scar too badly, though her beard would hopefully hide the worst of it once it grew back. He took the small knife from Cíweth's hand and placed it on the vanity, prompting her to hold the cloth instead.

"Press down and hold it there so I can lift you."

She didn't actually need to be carried of course, but he didn't really care at the moment. He'd have to talk to his son about the company he kept, and if he had to march upon Erebor with his whole army, he'd not let another blasted dwarf say another ill word to his Cíweth.

Cíweth sniffled rather unelegantly but held the cloth as she was told. Thranduil pulled her chair back and lifted her as he done so often when she had been even smaller. He was still surprised every time he picked her up; she was much heavier than an elf of the same height, but he'd gladly carry her to the end of Arda and across the Western Sea on foot if necessary.

Her sobbing had finally abated, although a few tears continued. She turned in his arms, hiding the uninjured half of her face against his robes.

"An' yesterday Master Rusgon said I look like a little goat."

Thranduil nearly dropped his granddaughter.

"Oh did he? That's amusing, coming from an old jackass."

Legolas would not appreciate such language being used in front of his daughter, but Thranduil was disinclined to care at this point. He'd need to dig his son out of his wine cellars soon; it was high time they had a long discussion about Cíweth's difficulties.

As for Rusgon, if he did not go to his knees and plead forgiveness for his loose tongue, he would not be living in the Greenwood much longer (and even if he did beg, he'd be mucking out stables for the next several decades). In fact, if he knew what were good for him, he'd be arranging a place on the next ship to Valinor…

ooooo

Thranduil had grabbed the first elf he ran into on his way to find a healer, and sent him off to go find Legolas.

Cíweth had been tended to and was now sitting curled up in his lap in a window seat in his study. She was really too old now to be held like this anymore, but neither of them commented upon it.

Legolas had turned up in a panic just as the healer had begun patching up Cíweth's cut, wanting to know what had happened, and it broke Thranduil's heart all over again to see his granddaughter's sorrow reflected again in his son's face. _Perhaps now he will understand some small measure of the pain he has given me_, he thought with a guilty satisfaction.

His son was now seated across from them, reading from a book but glancing up at the pair in the window every few minutes, clearly unable to concentrate on the text.

It pained them both to look at the wound on her face and, if Thranduil were honest with himself, even the missing patch of soft beard. It was part of her now, and belonged there, whatever certain idiot archers or foolish dwarflings thought of it.

Thranduil undid the braids in her long curly hair, letting it fall loosely about her face; it would obscure the cut from the side, at least. He should have brought a comb, he thought, but obtaining one would require him to shift her and get up so instead he just sat and slowly untangled her curls with his long fingers, carding them through her thick hair. She really did have quite a lot of it – soft and silky in texture like an elf's, but thick as a dwarf's mane. He was almost jealous.

ooooo

Legolas and his daughter left only a week later, much sooner than they'd originally planned. Cíweth wanted her mother, and that was that. Thranduil watched as she rode off, seated behind her father with her new bow over her shoulder. Rusgon had wisely made himself scarce and Legolas had overseen Cíweth's archery practice himself for the remainder of their stay.

As his heirs disappeared over the horizon, Thranduil decided a surprise visit to Erebor might be in order quite soon, including a few well-worded threats in the ears of certain nasty little dwarf children.


	3. Three Strands

(A/N: Cíweth is pretty young here, maybe the equivalent in human terms of about four or five years old)

Gimli had spent the entire morning among the forges of Erebor with her daughter trailing her and was now utterly exhausted. Although her own calling in life had been to that of the Warrior's path, she'd had plenty of training with a hammer and anvil during her youth in Ered Luin and was more than competent as a blacksmith. She had aided the smith-masters and their apprentices for hours, chatting (well, _shouting_) above the clamor, trying to befriend a few more of them, while simultaneously attempting to keep her daughter from causing too much mischief (the child seemed to have an endless supply of energy these days and Gimli could not fathom where the lass could be keeping it all in that tiny body of hers).

The Glittering Caves would need such skilled dwarves – everything from horseshoes and nails to gratings and gates to plow blades and axe blades. It couldn't hurt to be in the good favor of a few of them, even at this early stage of planning.

This was no mere blacksmith's forge as is found among men, or even the small but elegant ateliers of the Elves - there was a vast vaulted hall under the Mountain dedicated to every kind of metalcraft known in Arda, with massive chimneys tunneling up miles to exhaust the fumes of the forge-fires to the open skies, belching smoke and steam as though Smaug himself still lay under the mountain.

The people of Dale did not cower at this sight, though – the industry of the mountain enriched their marketplaces and freed up labor for their own primary source of income – the fruit of the fertile fields and orchards of the countryside surrounding the town and the Lonely Mountain. Having been left untilled and untended for many years under the malevolent gaze of a dragon, they now yielded nearly double what old records had indicated. And though it had been only a few decades since Erebor had been retaken by the dwarves, Dale's toy markets were once again becoming known throughout the region and beyond.

Now that the threat of Mordor was past, and a proper king upon the throne of Gondor, it seemed an era of peace and prosperity had finally arrived for those who still dwelled in Middle Earth – the perfect time, Gimli thought, for new things, such as the delightful(ly irritating) little imp currently perched on her belly and playing with her beard.

Gimli had unceremoniously chucked off her heavy boots next to the door of her home and was currently stretched out on her back on an overstuffed, Elf-sized couch, trying valiantly to get in an afternoon nap before her husband returned. He'd been away at Ithilien with the colony he had recently begun there with some of his father's people for the past month.

Gimli had slept poorly the night before, as she often seemed to sleep poorly these days when her husband was away. It always seemed so odd to her, that she had spent nearly her whole life sleeping each night like a log with no trouble on her own, even in ditches and caves, and then after only a scant few years of marriage, she no longer cared to parted from her husband for any length of time. Life was full of surprises these days, it seemed.

But Legolas would be home soon enough, and she would be compelled to rise and do something about getting supper together for her family (Legolas was a competent enough cook, but there was only so much "rabbit food" she could stand and so she rarely let him have their little kitchen to himself, though they often prepared meals together, with much grumbling and sniping as elbows clashed in the small space).

Cíweth had other ideas for their afternoon, apparently.

"Darling, let your poor mother sleep a bit, _please_."

The young girl draped herself over her mother, burying her round face and tangling her little fingers even further into her favorite soft, warm blanket, that was Gimli's thick red beard. Cíweth giggled as she breathed in deeply to catch the familiar scent of forge-smoke and iron that still lingered around her mother.

Gimli cracked open one eye and strained to look down at what her daughter had been doing while she'd dozed. Oh, dear, what a mess….

Cíweth had managed to undo her braids entirely and, apparently, was re-doing them in her own _imaginative_ fashion, including taking the ribbons out of her own hair and tangling them in with the rest of Gimli's various beads and adornments

"Ach! Look what you've done, lass-"

"I'm makin' you _pretty_, Mama!"

Gimli sighed and tried not to look too put-out. Cíweth's small fingers had stilled for a moment, but now went back to her attempts at winding handfuls of hair into tangles scarcely resembling braids.

"No, no! Stop, _stop_"

Gimli placed her hands gently over the small ones in her beard to still them, giving them a light squeeze and waiting until she (finally) had Cíweth's full attention.

Gimli chewed at her lip and thought a minute. Maybe Cíweth was old enough now; her clever fingers certainly had no problem getting into trouble and breaking into all manner of things.

"Come now, do you want to learn how to braid _properly_ or not?"

Cíweth answered by way of giggling and pursing her lips, jamming an end of one of the "braids" she'd made in Gimli's beard between her nose and her mouth as a mock-moustache.

Gimli yanked the tangled hair back began undoing the knots, trying not curse in front of her daughter when they were difficult (the child had the infuriating habit of repeating _everything_ she heard sooner or later). Gimli pressed ribbons and beads into Cíweth's hands as she got them untangled.

That Cíweth's beard had never come in was still something of a private grievance to Gimli, although she would never put voice to such feelings, not wanting to hurt her husband's or daughter's feelings over something that was nobody's fault and not really all that important in the grand scheme of things. Nonetheless, Gimli's family had been known for generations for their fine, thick beards and her daughter had apparently inherited none of it. _Well, such is life_.

Cíweth had put all the beads and ribbons into the pocket on the front of her smock and, in her impatience, had gone back to daydreaming and threading her fingers through the ends of Gimli's beard.

"Oh _do_ pay attention!"

Cíweth sniffled and looked up with a startled expression. Gimli was generally quite patient with her daughter (at least more so than she was patient with any other animate or inanimate thing on Arda, which was certainly testament to her love for her child), but the girl's mind constantly flitted from one thing to another and wandered about without direction. She was certainly her father's daughter as well, in that regard. Gimli chuckled to herself at the thought. Tch, _elves_.

"I know I can do it, Mama, I _can_."

"Of course ye can, darling, but only if you _pay attention._"

Gimli groped around for another cushion, wedging it behind her head to see her work and her daughter both a bit better and began to re-do the first braid trailing down from beside her chin.

A thorough combing would not be amiss (it was about time for a wash, too, but that could wait another day), but she didn't have a comb on her at the moment, alas. It would have to wait until the evening. She could do up her customary braids in a matter of minutes in the morning, and undo them again before bed in even less time, but she worked slowly now, trying to let Cíweth's eyes follow each strand over and under one another.

The braids in Cíweth's hair were most often the work of her father (unless he was away on some errand or another) as she sat on his knees every morning after their breakfast, though done a bit thicker than customary for elvish braids, due to the sheer volume of Cíweth's copper-blonde hair.

Gimli fixed the bead at the end of the first braid and separated the locks on the other side to begin the second.

"Okay, now it is your turn."

Cíweth was hesitant at first and Gimli had to guide her movements for several minutes, but it wasn't long before she got the hang of it. She had trouble with the bead at the end but beads were always a bit fiddly anyway and Gimli was sure more practice would fix the problem.

ooooo

Legolas wound his way through the town of Dale as the shadows grew long with the coming of the evening, barely noticing the activity of the human residents and dwarven traders who milled about the town, moving swiftly and lightly over the dusty narrow cobbled, graveled or muddy packed-dirt streets despite his exhaustion, making his way home to his family in the mountain ahead.

Even the customary distrust on the faces of the guards at the gates of the Lonely Mountain could not slow him down. Like every dwarf in Erebor now, they knew the only elf in residence on sight, and let him pass without comment. It had taken some time to gain even a tentative trust of the dwarves of Erebor, at least those outside of his wife's own kin, but he'd slowly befriended… well, _some_ of them.

Gimli's honor and good standing counted for quite a lot, and kept him from being harassed, but respect isn't quite the same thing as acceptance. There were still some of those who had been in his father's dungeon, of course, although over half of them had long passed to their Maker's halls. Gloin had forgiven Legolas entirely and accepted him as a son (though probably only for the sake of Gimli's happiness and no other reason; Legolas had no illusions about that).

While Dwalin's goodwill had also at first seemed mostly a spiteful usurpation of Thranduil's son after that first unhappy reunion, the dwarf seemed almost maybe genuinely fond of him now (even though Legolas had mostly patched things up with his father and they were again on speaking terms), although Dwalin would probably never admit it in mixed company.

Legolas rarely ran across Dori, who oversaw the provisions and supplies of the King's court these days, but Legolas had come to expect cool politeness, and nothing more – the old dwarf's mood had been rather subdued since learning of his youngest brother's death in Moria, and Legolas could not bring himself to feel sore over the apparent hostility. His demeanor toward Gimli was only a little better and Legolas suspected that Dori somehow connected them to his brother's misfortune, despite the fact that Ori had been long dead by the time the fellowship had discovered his bones and his book at Balin's tomb.

Dori's wayward brother, Nori, was rarely present at Erebor, and Legolas knew not whither the thief went when he was not present, nor did he care to find out, but more than one small item had disappeared from his person after their rare run-ins.

Legolas would occasionally run across Bombur, Bombur's wife, one of his prodigious offspring, or Bofur, while in Dale, and they generally ignored him unless he made a point of speaking to them or had Gimli or Cíweth with him. The larger dwarf had a popular restaurant at an inn in town, and other cousin had a stall in the toy market.

The eldest cousin, Bifur, spent most of his days at his cousin's market stall carving his clever little animal toys as shoppers stopped to watch or walked by, happy enough with his craft but more or less indifferent to the world around him. Of the three cousins, however, he was the most responsive to Legolas, occasionally smiling up at the elf and saying something that, despite Gloin and Dwalin's Khuzdul lessons, remained largely incomprehensible to him. Still, it was nice to be acknowledged, and Legolas occasionally brought him pieces of fine wood from his father's realm for his work.

The sun was setting behind the Misty Mountains as Legolas entered, at last, the kingdom of Erebor. The cool air inside the mountain felt refreshing against his heated face and he breathed deeply as he made his way to his family's home. He began to sing to himself in Sindarin, garnering a few suspicious looks from dwarves passing by.

The sight that greeted him upon entering his home was enough to dispel any lingering exhaustion from the road, however.

His daughter was seated on his wife's lap, high-pitched laughing filling the room. Gimli's hair and beard had more braids than he'd ever seen on a single dwarf, some more crooked than others, and at least four different colors of ribbons and dozens of beads in a riot over her head.

Legolas fell back against the doorframe, jamming his knuckles into his mouth and trying not to descend into hysterics as Gimli shot him a threatening glance.

"Papa, look! I made Mama pretty!"

Legolas choked on barely withheld laughter, his face turning red in the effort.

"Yes, _very_ pretty!"

Gimli lifted Cíweth and set her on the floor and rose from the couch, shooting her husband a glance that could curdle fresh cream. Suddenly her expression changed, turning into something rather more wolfish.

"Well, my little badger, perhaps after supper, you can make your Papa pretty too!"

Cíweth grinned broadly as she skipped over to her father, reaching up to take hold of a strand of his long blond hair. Legolas' grin took on a rather more forced look.

"But don't you want me to tell you all about what I've been doing in Ithilien?"

Cíweth smiled innocently.

"I can do listening an' braiding a'the same time, don' worry, I can make you pretty too!"

Now it was Gimli's turn to laugh, and she made no attempt at holding it in. Legolas felt just a little betrayed.

Gimli walked over and grabbed Legolas by the elbow and dragged him toward the kitchen.

"Take off those boots and come wash up, it's time to start supper. Cíweth, you too, I don't want you making a mess again while we're busy."

(Cíweth had managed to "decorate" their home with ink and charcoal the previous week when left unattended for a few minutes, and Gimli was not in a mood to scrub the walls _again_).

ooooo

Later that evening Legolas found himself draped over Gimli's lap and outstretched legs, his head propped on the arm of the sofa and his poor, abused hair in the slightly sticky hands of an overly enthusiastic child.

It would probably take _hours_ for him and his wife to undo the damage to their hair after they put Cíweth to bed… all that unbraiding, and combing, and brushing, maybe even a wash… hm, well, he could think of a worse way to begin their first evening together again after over a month's separation.

Legolas smiled softly at Gimli and ran his fingers over his wife's chaotic braids. He wrapped a warm hand around the soft skin of her nape and pulled her down for a kiss.

Legolas ignored the embarrassed giggles and outburst of "ewwwww, stop tha' mushy stuff!" behind him and deepened the kiss. As their daughter squealed and ran out of the room, Gimli chuckled into her husband's mouth and wrapped her arms tightly around him.


	4. Homecoming

I return home at last and receive forgiveness and welcome, but she does not.

Do they not understand? Do they not see? She shrugs and waves it all off, paying no mind their sharp tongues, but my heart aches despite her reassurances.

They do not see. They do not understand.

They look at her and see only a dwarf. No, it is even less than that. They look and do _not_ see at all. They do not wish to.

Uncomely, they call her. _Ugly_.

_How can you stand it?  
_

_How can you even… with that… that dwarf!?  
_

_No wonder they like caves and mines so much, they probably can't even look at one another without retching.  
_

_Do you hide her under a sheet when you make love? Ha ha!_

I grow angry and sorrowful at their words but hide the pain they give me; there was a time when I would have said the same, so often repeated whenever dwarves were seen or mentioned.

They look at her, but do not see her.

They refuse to acknowledge the light in her eyes when she laughs (_a dwarf is only crude_, they say), they do not see the softness when she loves (_a dwarf only possesses_, they say), the passion when she fights to protect others (_a dwarf is only violent_, they say).

They would care nothing for the play of candlelight over the curve of hip and breast, or the way sunlight and firelight turn to burnished copper, polished bronze and rich veins of gold in her mane.

They most certainly deserve no knowledge of her stretched out beneath me now, head thrown back, face framed by the flaming corona of hair and beard unbound, muscle and sinew pulling and shifting under hair and skin like steel overlaid with softest velvet.

They pinch their noses at her as she passes through the halls, complain of pipe smoke and sweat and the supposed stench of dwarves, never bothering to recall their own pungent states at the end of the battlefield or merely long practice at the archery range or even simple honest labor.

They care nothing for her skill upon either battlefield or at the forge, nor the warm scent of freshly washed hair, faintly sweet and faintly smoky, so alike to the incense burned still upon rare altars in hidden corners of Arda by the dwindling descendents of Númenor to please Ilúvatar, which I now gather to myself as I inhale deeply.

Coarse, they call her. Rough and unrefined, the lesser creation of a lesser creator. They do not even touch, much less feel. They flinch away from so little as a warm hand upon a shoulder in friendly greeting, they dash aside at her approach, giving wide berth as though the merest brush might leave behind corruption.

They do not even deserve to be told that she is in truth unlike the males of her kind, soft where they may perhaps be coarse; no harsh wool adorns her but only the softest down and richest lamb's fleece, that even hands roughened by battle and work may be gentle, and the torments of one's soul may be indeed forgotten surrounded by such warmth, if only for a moment.

The last sunlight of the day streams through an open window, drawing long shadows across the floor. We are together on the bed in a room in which I have spent long years but none lately, door firmly shut and locked against the world outside. My father has carried off our young daughter upon his shoulders and I do not worry over her safety. He looks with ire upon my wife but with fast affection upon our child. The absurdity of it would make me laugh if it did not make me come close to weeping. Even now, he can barely contain his anger at the sight of my love, barely clinging to civility in her presence.

I cling to her tightly now, almost violently, my nails pressing into her skin and I thank the Valar that she comes from such a hardy race; I cannot harm her so easily. We cannot feel so carefree nor innocent in these halls as out in the wilds of Arda; she says nothing but understands well enough the pain in my heart, I can see it reflected in her eyes whenever her kin and countrymen whisper behind us as we walk through Erebor. Our love has orphaned us; we are set apart among our own kind, made strangers in our own homelands.

She reaches up and pulls gently but firmly at the back of my head; hands wind carefully but insistently into my hair as we kiss. There are tears on our faces but whether they are mine or hers or ours both, I do not know. I worry at her bottom lip, pulling blood up to the surface, then run my tongue softly over her mouth to soothe. My fingers thread through her beard and hair close to the skin, to grasp and pull and card through it along her jaw, drawing soft sighs.

_The stubborn necks of dwarves_, they say. I do not think they would even believe me if I told them of the sensitive throats of dwarves, how the lightest touch to hidden skin elicits a whole-body shiver.

_Their hearts are cold as stone_, they say. Her eyes slowly close as I pull thick hair aside to kiss at her pulse point, measuring the strong beat of her heart and the ebb and flow of her life's blood, her back arches and she gasps sharply when I bite.

_They are hard like stone, they care for nothing but gems and precious metals_, they say. Her hands are gentle over my skin, soft and light or warm and firm in turns, working their way across my flesh spreading her forge-fire behind them.

_They do not feel like we do_, _they know nothing of love of anything but for wealth,_ they say. In some things she knows me now better than I know myself. Many afternoons we have spent sparring and teasing and reveling in the push-pull that balances us. I know well enough that in the end, her strength outmatches my own. Today she yields willingly, accepts my tears and desire both.

I leave her marked throat and trail heat downward, over tender breasts and warm heart and firm belly. They would laugh at her, I know, and me. I lay my head against soft down and exhale to see it move almost imperceptibly. I look up and she smiles at me under hooded eyes and reaches down to rub gently at my ear. I know now the tears are mine alone and still they escape.

I run my hands over the skin inside her thighs and she leans back and stretches upon the bed like a cat. I run my fingers over her and spread her apart and lean forward to taste.

This, I know, would probably have my brethren shrieking and running for the hills at such a shocking sight. My tears stop now, at this thought. Truly, I no longer care. The whole lot of them could come piling in through the door and I do not think I would even notice them; my ears are filled with her low sighs and quickening breath as I lap and suck at her, drawing her open and slick and red and shaking. I breath in greedily, and take my fill of her scent.

The whole of my father's kingdom can go crashing to the earth for all I care at this moment, no sound of it will reach me now as my ears grow warm between the strength of her legs. My eyes are shut, I will not see them flee Arda, nor feel the pounding of their feet through the rushing of my blood.

The world outside these four walls fades to nothing as she arches beneath me crying out, and part of me fervently hopes they will hear her pleasure in every corner of the Greenwood, scattering elves from their perches like idiot pigeons.

No longer content to be patient, my love grasps me under my arms and hauls me bodily up, drawing her own nails and teeth heedlessly over my thin elvish skin, drawing I know not what sigil or sign across my hide. She wraps her legs around my hips and joins us fully at last.

Nothing else matters.


End file.
